Caitria and Mairin sat in the pool, staring at nothing. Lapis would have worried, if they managed neutral, let alone cheerful, after visiting the Pit. She leaned against the far wall and attempted to think of nothing. She hated the Pit, hated the gut-sick depths of worry that one of the street rats would end up there after pissing off a guttershank, hated the families that left their vulnerable members for monsters because they did not want to be held responsible for abandoning them. Not that many in the Grey or Stone Streets cared—they had their own problems—but she did. And she could do nothing about it, as a singular voice rising against the callous indifference, no matter how forcefully she screamed.
“You said you know someone who survived the Pit,” Caitria said, her voice soft, desperate.
“Yeah. I do. Someone dumped him there when he was four. He wailed loud enough a Stone Streets thief took pity on him and rescued him.”
“So he didn’t leave on his own.”
“No. Most of the kids left there are too young to know what’s going on. Once they’re seven or eight, they run to the streets when they think their parents are going to cart them to the Pit.”
“There are a lot of street kids.”
“Yeah. It’s another reminder that the Grey and Stone Streets will never be important enough for the throne to pay attention to. If you are willing to harm the young and innocent, no one is safe from you. It’s not just here, though. Most of the city is a temper tantrum away from Gall obliterating it with his special tech. Harkenberry and Romengerie, the Bells, think they’ll evade retribution because they’re rich and noble enough. I think they’re delusional.”
Caitria’s breath hitched, then she forced her shoulders to relax. “That may have been true, a decade ago. But . . .” She licked her lips. “Gall isn’t in favor like he once was. The Lord’s Council is choking the flow of tech to Jilvayna. We don’t know why, but it’s caused enough of a panic he now hordes what he has. He wouldn’t waste it on something as minor as a temper tantrum.”
“If you promote something like the Pit, that can scare enough people without the use of tech,” Mairin reminded her. “And Gall has always been sadistic.”
Lapis knew that, too acutely.
Caitria studied her. “Patch was very insistent about whom to trust at the Jiy House,” she said. “You, of course.”
Lapis raised an eyebrow. “Of course?”
Mairin smiled. “I don’t think you realize how often he speaks of you when he’s around us. He trusts Faelan, and a few others like Ciaran, and us, I guess. But you—he has complete and utter faith in you.”
She had no idea how to respond to that. He was her light and her rock, and to hear him reciprocate that . . .
“He is fond of Brander and Sherridan and said they know how to keep their mouths shut when necessary,” she continued. “He said not to trust Selda because she’s too gossipy, but that she’s a good soul and can be counted on for things that don’t require secrecy.”
Lapis sighed at the truth to that. “Selda’s a wonderful cook and a kind person, but he’s right—she will gossip about anything and everything, even if she shouldn’t.” Before Sherridan retrieved her for this little expedition, she and Whitley practiced serving at elite tables while listening to the woman speculate about the Blue Council’s arrival and what it meant for Baldur—and she did not pause once to ponder whether she should prattle on about it with them.
“And that’s it. The Jiy House has thousands of rebels that look to it for protection, missions and support, but he only named three we could trust completely. He mentioned a few others that could provide limited assistance, depending on what we required, but for most matters he told us to only trust you three. And . . .” She glanced at Caitria. “You know Faelan, don’t you.”
Lapis felt her heart stop.
For years she had dreaded that question, had quivered at the thought of a Jiy rebel meeting Faelan through chance and brightly relating to him that a woman at the Jiy House had black hair and purple eyes, just like his—what a coincidence! And that they would return to the capital and happily tell her that the Leader of the rebels looked just like her—what a coincidence!
And the traitor would hear about the conversation and know that a Nicodem survived the slaughter. He would search for her, to erase the one who could bring him to justice.
Giggles and the shuffling of feet accompanied a group of women as they entered the bathing area. Typical Jiy merchant types, and no one she knew, but they effectively broke the tense aura that had fallen around the three of them. Lapis managed a small smile before rising to retrieve her towel and give herself some time to think of a response.
Ciaran and Tearlach knew her secret. Caitria and Mairin, as with Sherridan, realized something odd had occurred between them. Brander had no reason to out her if he found out about her past during this excursion. She would not take Mairin’s word for it, but recognized, through her own experience, that Patch trusted him, and with far more intimate rebel information than Baldur ever realized. And considering how the day had already gone . . . she did not trust her luck, in holding her secret dear.
Lady Thyra must have told Ciaran about the traitor, but she doubted Tearlach knew. What could she say to him? How could she explain the depths of her fear, that the man who led Kale’s men into Nicodem would discover her and hunt her down? How could she explain the depths of pain that Faelan’s betrayal caused?
Her older brother never bothered to find out if anyone survived the attack. The family he claimed to care so deeply for, the family who brought him joy in the darkest of times . . .
She firmed her lips and fought not to shed tears. Over the last eight years, she had spent too much time crying her soul into her pillow because the brother she adored had forsaken her. Because the uncle she loved had abandoned her. Lady Thyra had sent her as quickly out the back door as she had rushed in, though Lapis knew Neola and her family’s slaughter had struck her to her core and she had not been thinking of anything but to secret her best friend’s little girl away from the soldiers banging at the front of the mansion. But she had needed help, too, and she received nothing. She had stood in the dark, staring at the mansion she considered her second home, shuddering, the chill night breeze ripping through her torn dress, the cold of the packed earth creeping through her thin slippers, without food, without water, without knowing how to get to Coriy, terrified if she spoke to anyone, they would hand her over to the traitor and he would kill her, like he had her little brother. If he did not hesitate to behead a six-year-old, what chance had she?
They reformed into a small, sober group in the lobby, all clothed in different outfits bought at the bath’s expansive shop. Lapis found a slight relief and comfort in that. No one said a word as they exited into the cloud-covered day, a far too-bright atmosphere for the dark despair the Pit instilled. Caitria glanced up, then over at Mairin.
“I would like to wander around a bit, maybe see the markets, before it rains,” she said.
“We’re near the Lells,” Brander told them. “There’s enough there to distract you, for a little while.”
True enough. The Lells was the largest market in Jiy, which meant it was the largest market on the Grey Streets, which meant it attracted her street rats. Rin and Scand managed a decent pickpocket day there, and Phialla and Ness made a few bits selling their pottery wares, though Brone did the best, since he attracted curious tourists. They liked his dance music, and he drummed fast.
And each one of them would grant her an accusatory look when they realized she was not somewhere else, planning a chase. And they would nose about, trying to find out who her companions were, and her city identity would become very, very clear.
All her secrets were crashing to the ground about her, and she had no idea how to even begin to salvage them and piece them back together. She never should have agreed to accompany the rebels into the city. She should have stayed at the House and dealt with Tearlach’s suspicion and Ciaran’s uncertainty when they returned, no matter how that would hurt them.
But she hated hurting people she cared for. It was why she joined the small group. She had good intentions, thinking to pull Tearlach aside, speak to him . . . about what, she did not know. Her brother, she supposed. Maybe the traitor.
She shook herself. The day would turn out as it turned out. If a Jiy rebel discovered her street guise, at least it was not Relaine or Baldur. Brander, unlike Selda, kept secrets close and hidden.
The crowd somewhat surprised her, considering the threat of rain. A goodly number of foreign tourists prowled the wares, looking for some bit to take home and declare that they had purchased the item in the largest market in Jiy. They usually had more to spend, and if the rats plied them right, they made a nice few bits off of them.
Caitria looked around, eyes wide, uncertain where to start. Tarps and canopies held up by wooden poles ringed the streets between shop doorways, covering open crates and racks containing food, clothing, knick-knacks, everyday and special items. The stores housed inside the flamboyant stucco buildings had brightly decorated signs that attempted to draw attention with their odd pictures. The squares contained the poorer merchants, who sold their wares from lively blankets spread across the fine dirt. Some had short, curved tarps to protect from the sun, but most wore large hoods and wide-brimmed hats. All contained eye-searing cheerful patterns to attract attention. Gaudily dressed entertainers busked up and down the streets, while some, like Brone, had a small space in the squares where they performed, attempting, through music, to gather an audience. The array of color and noise dazzled as it confused, and Lapis often wondered if that was not the point.
Mairin and Ciaran looked amused at Caitria’s reaction, though Tearlach, who quietly kept to himself, showed no emotions. That worried Lapis, and she knew she would have to speak with him, sooner rather than later.
“You can find almost anything here, though it’s not the finest quality,” Brander told them as he glanced about the crowd, likely spying pickpockets. Her group should be safe enough—the guttershanks found out, too late, what happened when they tried to pick her—and then the street rats drove home the message, even when she told them to stay clear. “Clothes, food, drink, wares, jewelry. There’re street musicians and entertainers, too. There’s plenty of local talent selling stuff, you don’t have to buy Dentherion if you don’t want to.”
Caitria granted him a quick smile at that. “Patch said to buy from the kids, if possible. Kids sell stuff here?”
“The rats do, yeah,” Lapis said. “Not every day, but Phialla, Lyet and Ness sell pottery,” —and she did not miss Mairin’s sudden interest— “Miyomon sells knotted cords, Jandra has small beaded items, and she’s gotten good at making those long necklaces you can loop about your neck. Maci and Drow go on rock expeditions outside the city and sell the unpolished rocks here. Radi sells little bags, and I’m pretty certain those little bags once had a home in the Chestnut Shops, but those merchants could lose half the store and still turn a profit.”
She hated the Chestnut Shops and their prickly little men owners who threw fits every way to End Year about undignified her walking their Orchards streets in front of their Orchards stores.
They got really bent when she knocked her flailing merchant stake out and dragged him to the nearest guardhouse, getting his end-week best clothing absolutely filthy with dust. Served him right, for being a little prick.
She wondered at her tone, considering the amusement that leaked from Brander.
A key appeared in front of her face.
She snagged it and looked at the small number etched into the top.
And stopped.
“This is the suite.”
“Yep!” Rinan said proudly.
She stared at him. “You bargained Dachs for the suite?” Should she feel outraged or impressed?
Scand huffed up, out of breath, grinning so widely she thought his face would crack. “They even took bets, on who’d win!” he crowed.
She stared at the key. “Bets?” She admitted it—she was jealous. “I want a bathroom,” she said, sounding as put out as she felt. After dealing with Dachs, she felt as if she had bargained her life away for her little room—and Rin got the suite?
“I’ll even lets you use it,” Rin said. Then he smashed his lips shut and grabbed the key before disappearing into the crowd.
He had better run, after that statement.
“You did tell him not to get the closet room,” Scand reminded her.
“That doesn’t mean I told him to haggle for the suite, either,” she grumbled.
“He did beat Dachs, though,” the rat said. “You should have been there, Lady! There was this Dentherion who thought a street rat couldn’t be smart enough to barter for anything important and put a whole bunch of money on Dachs. Rik cleaned her out. We even got some.”
“You bet on Rin.” It did not surprise her.
“Of course I did! We all did.” His eyes lit. “We pooled together. Got a silver out of it! Can you believe it?”
Her group, who politely stopped to wait for her, all expressed surprise, which Scand greatly enjoyed. It surprised her; what fool bet silver on such an event? A Dentherion one, she supposed.
“Shouldn’t you be picking?” she asked.
“Nah.” He waved his hand towards the crowd—a very clean hand, which meant the kids used their money for a bath. Good. Clean street rat did not attract the attention dusty street rat did from potential targets. “There’re so many here, and a lot of them have guards. We got enough this morning, so we thought we’d just skim.” He inched closer and dropped his voice. “We already had to take Brone’s bits and hide them in your room.”
“He’s made that much?”
“From some Abastion group. They went on and on about authentic folk music. Brone just smiled and played dumb. Rin cleaned one of them out, for being pricks.” He looked up at her and whispered, “We had to hide that in your room, too. Three silver!”
She sighed. What idiot walked around the Lells with three silver in their pouch? Well, if her companions wanted an intimate view of rat life, Scand would eagerly provide.
“I see why you’re playing least in sight.”
“Rin’s going to add that to the bath fund.”
“Bath fund?”
“Yeah. Every street rat that puts in can get a bath in the suite. But only those in the reading circle, and maybe some like Lykas and Jandra.”
Rin had a good heart. She expected no less from him.
“But the temple has good soap, so I think I’ll still go there.”
She smiled at that.
Then he looked askance at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a stake?” he asked. The group also looked at her after the question, though she assumed they all realized that she had not quite made it to the House before Patch went out.
“Timetables change,” she told him. “Old friends sometimes show up unexpectedly.” She nodded at her companions. “Very old friends, from before I left Coriy. So be nice.”
His eyes widened at that, and his interest sharpened. She never related much to the rats about her life before she moved to Jiy and became a chaser, and their curiosity burned brighter for it.
“This is Scand,” she told them, nodding at the lad. “The one who bargained for the suite is Rinan.” She would wait, for a quieter moment and one without rat ears, to explain Rin was the survivor.
“Rinan.” Brander nodded, as she just confirmed his suspicion. “I’ve heard of him.”
Scand was beyond impressed. “You have?”
“He’s one of the best out here, and Chinder taught him. He taught you, too?”
The rat rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yes, but not for as long as Rin.”
“He taught me. I was one of his first students.”
“Really?” His excitement ricocheted around them.
Fast friends, she assumed. Of course, if the rats tried to pick Brander, they’d find out quickly enough they would be the ones cleaned out. Rin was exceptional; Brander was elite. He had once picked an important note from one of Gall’s ministers directly from his hand as he waved it about during a tirade against a poor merchant who had done something he disliked. The rebel made a quick exit before his target realized something was amiss and gloated for days over his bravery.
“You know these interesting people, and you didn’t tell us?” Scand asked, spreading his arms wide.
Brander laughed as she tried to think of an appropriate response that did not include glaring him into the ground for the boldness. The rest of the group looked far too amused at the exchange, and Tearlach even smiled.
“Where did Phialla decide to set up?” she asked, more as a distraction for herself rather than for information.
“She and Ness were at the Banks and Seven corner, but they had to move. Dandi was hassling them.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why.”
“They were selling more than he was, and he got pissy.” Scand’s sudden seriousness made her worry. “It’s not like they have as much as his store. He tried to kick the pots and break them.”
Dandi had said nasty things before but never attempted to damage the items for sale. “Where’s his grand-da?”
“Not in the market.”
So he had full rein to be an ass.
“They moved near Brone, and Lyet’s with them. Dandi doesn’t do anything when she’s there.”
Dandi was afraid of Lyet. Lapis had no idea why, but he often shook in her presence. She thought it an odd reaction, that a twenty-something, spoiled merchant’s grandson trembled when a sixteen-year-old runaway stepped near. She dreaded the day when that fear turned violent.
“My mother likes to create pots,” Mairin said. “I’d love to see what the kids have.”
A great excuse to immediately visit. Lapis led them through the crowds, in more of a hurry than Caitria probably wished, but she had a bad feeling about Dandi. Scand fell back to Brander and a moment of queasiness rushed through her before the impertinent question popped out.
“So which one are you?”
“You can be nice, and ask his name,” Lapis reminded him.
“So what’s your name?” Scand immediately rephrased.
Brander glanced at her before looking at the lad. “Raban.”
Scand’s mouth fell open, and he choked as Lapis . . . did not feel the shock she thought she should. It did not surprise her in the least, Brander’s city identity was infamous thief. It also indicated that, whatever secrets she possessed, he expected to learn them, since he trusted her with his.
“STOP IT!”
Phialla? She ran.
She broke through the crowd, uncaring who snapped at her for pushing them. Dandi wielded a knife and swung it at Lyet while he kicked yet another pot into small pieces. He flailed about, which likely explained why no one attempted to interfere. Too dangerous, a rando with a blade. Lyet avoided the erratic slashes and steadied herself, ready to lunge at him. Lapis did not give her the chance, because if Dandi harmed her, she doubted she could keep the rats from mobbing him—or staking him. She knew one chaser who would happily send the snobby snit over the side of the Pit, and while Patch was not there, he would return sooner rather than later.
“What are you doing?” she yelled, interrupting his malicious delight. He looked over at her, pudgy face blank in surprise, as she kicked the knife from his hand. It spun and smacked a nearby canopy pole before dropping into the dirt; Lyet retrieved it before he even realized she attacked. Lapis slammed her foot into his stomach and sent him careening into the startled, curious crowd, where he landed heavily, in an undignified lump. Dust puffed up and coated his green uniform and his greasy brown hair.
“Lyet, did he hurt you?”
“No. I’m fine, Lady,” she replied, though her voice trembled. “He couldn’t hit the side of a building with this if he tried.” She raised the knife slightly at the words. “All he did was swing his arm around.” She tugged her black bangs from her reddish-brown eyes, then looked at the idiot in the dirt, distrustful.
A man broke from the crowd, intent on Lapis, looking as if he had expected her arrival. From the look of him, he might well be one of the guards the guild recently released. He had scruffy hair and beard, something out of character for one of them, but the heavy leather gear and prominent sword were hard to miss.
“And you are?” she asked, in no mood for nice.
He grinned, showing unnaturally white teeth. “Master Orinder likes his grandson hale and whole,” he said, without a hint of a Grey or Stone Streets accent.
“Yeah? Then Dandi should have stayed at his booth. What’s he doing over here, hassling kids?”
He sneered. “They’re not kids.” His smile faded.
Ciaran stopped just behind and to her left and folded his arms, a typical stance of support and back-up in the rebel community. He did not have the Patch-cold that infused her partner when something pissed him off, but his own ice worked very well. An aura swirled about him, of confidence tinged with annoyance and a hint of rage, that would make even the heaviest guttershank pause.
“Who are you?” the guard demanded, reaching for his sword. A thrill of apprehension raced through her; no one with her had brought a weapon large enough to counter a sword.
“A friend,” he said.
“Her partner?” the man asked, wary. Since she did not know this man, she wondered what Grey Streets gossip informed his uncertainty. True, Patch’s reputation certainly proceeded him—but no one, as far as she knew, realized they had even met, let alone basked in a closer relationship.
“No.”
The guard’s sudden agitation pricked her curiosity, especially when he glanced at the lump of a man he needed to protect, then turned on his heel and walked away.
So. He would try to harm her when he thought her by herself but refused to fight when a man supported her. That pissed her off far more than his initial threat.
Ciaran looked at her, and she shrugged; she had no idea how to answer the question in his eyes. She patted his arm before turning to the dirt-covered blanket and the shattered shards of pottery. Mairin knelt and smiled at a silently crying Phialla and a very distraught Ness, who wept into Lyet’s chest.
Phialla was thirteen. She made pots because she could do so without needing to see. Ness was nine. He worked extremely hard to paint the pots Phialla made. It broke something in her, to see them mourning their efforts. They normally made enough to eat and buy more supplies. That was it. How in the nonexistent gods’ names did Dandi believe them a threat to his grand-da’s prosperous booth?
“These are so pretty, it would be a shame just to throw them away. They’re the perfect size for stepping-stone decoration,” Mairin said, holding up one small bit. “Those are easy to make, too. I can show you how.”
“Are you listening to her?” Brone asked as he dumped himself next to Phialla before prodding Ness’s arm. He set the drum and his take—his bit bowl practically overflowed—in front of them and placed a comforting hand on Phialla’s back.
They fought like siblings most of the time, but her rats took care of each other, too. That was good, because she had a stake to prepare.
She raised her hand. “If anything gets broken, you’ll get nothing!” she yelled. “He’s staked. Lells Guardhouse. Ask for Fyor.”
“Lady!” Lykas said, absolutely outraged, hands on hips, his eyes bright brown fire as he glared through his dusty blond bangs. Rin stood next to him, almost in the same pose, as put out as his friend.
“You heard me, Lykas,” she snapped. “Don’t break anything. Don’t tell me you can’t manage a few pots and vases without busting them.”
“That’s better than he deserves,” Lykas growled.
“Those aren’t his wares,” she reminded him. “They’re Orinder’s wares. And if you think Orinder approved of his grandson breaking Phialla and Ness’s things out in the open, in front of how many witnesses, you’re wrong. Now hurry, before Scand takes it all.”
Both snapped their heads around, looking for the absent Scand, and ran for the stall so they could get their share of the stake.
“You’ve done this before.”
She glanced at Tearlach and nodded. “Yeah. It keeps the merchants from messing with the kids. They have to pay to get their stuff back, and that goes into the rats’ pockets. It’s never enough to cause them harm, but enough to make them rethink attacking them. I need to get to the guardhouse before they do, to write out the stake.”
“I want to go with you.”
She grabbed his hand and ran.
